Fine
by Xavien
Summary: Crescendo. Finale. Fine. A different take on recent events.


As we labored over our plans, in the days and weeks that we considered merely a crescendo to the grand finale of today, our minds were always focused on one single thought. Now, when it is far too late, I can see that thought, the one we clung to like a lifeline for four long years, for what it was: denial.

The Dark Lord can't be dead. It's impossible. Our Lord was too great and powerful to die. He'd long before risen above such mortal weaknesses as death. Had he not been killed twenty years ago, only to rise again, more formidable than ever? No, he's simply hiding, biding his time, knowing the enemy was still too strong to be overtaken without a tedious fuss. He just doesn't want the hassle, that's all. And when he does come back – because he assuredly will – won't he be glad to know that his followers were ever faithful, and kept carrying out his ultimate purpose, so as to show the world he was not as gone as they'd liked to think?

Yesterday, that... _boy_… had the audacity to say the Dark Lord's name in his radio speech. Well, we would show him.

We chose our targets carefully. America, for all their generosity and good will, had many enemies in all corners of the world, so it was a simple matter to design it so that they would be compelled to point fingers at anyone but us. Only a precious few would ever know the truth. Until we told them.

And when we did, they would understand the true scope of their folly. And they would blame _him_ for misleading them, trying to tell them that _he'd_ killed the Dark Lord with _his_ bare hands. That the Dark Lord was never coming back. Because if _he_ had not, we wouldn't have been forced to commit such acts.

All _his_ fault.

It was degrading to have to resort to knives, instead of our most effective and preferred weapons. But it was necessary, as our targets would have laughed if we had pointed what they would certainly view as twigs at their faces, having no command nor knowledge of the devastation our "twigs" could exact. To control, to cause pain, to kill with a single flick of the wrist – the idea was well beyond the realm of their imagination. Knives, however, knives were things they could understand and appreciate.

And did they ever appreciate them. Faint-hearted women screamed beautifully when we suddenly appeared on their flight out of Boston, hands clutching cruel silver blades, bodies swathed in our menacing black cloaks to hide our identities. I can only imagine their fearful cries were just as sweet on the three other airplanes that our brethren have assuredly overtaken as well.

Outside the windows, the gargantuan city known as New York was spread out magnificently below us. We grinned knowingly at each other when it became obvious the plane had changed course, and was now headed straight into the heart of the city.

By now, the weak-minded fools were realizing just what was going on. Some of the braver souls tried overpowering us in an attempt to prevent the inevitable. It was laughable, the idea of them getting the best of one of us. Their attacks were pitiful; it was easy to get through their defenses. And after the first few would-be heroes were skewered, their blood mixing as it flowed along the aisles, the others thought twice about making a scene.

One of us came back from the cockpit, his task of eliminating the pilots complete, and nodded once. The plane's course was irrevocably set. He disappeared in an instant, his vanishing act drawing startled gasps from some of the passengers.

One by one we disappeared, until it was only I that remained. But before I could complete my spell, a hand grabbed my cloak roughly at the elbow, and I looked down coldly at the young woman who'd dared. She pleaded, prostrated herself before me, begged me not to do this, to save them. Disgusted, I shook the hand from my cloak and, for my own pleasure, drove my blade into her throat before completing my own vanishing spell.

I materialized on the streets below, next to my brethren, who were one by one appearing at this, our rendezvous point.

What took me? they asked.

Just some excess garbage to clean up, I told them.

And we watched, feeling somehow vindicated, as Flight 175 barreled nose-first into the World Trade Center. As the tower collapsed in on itself, we looked at each other, and, one by one, disappeared.

Crescendo. Grand Finale.

_Fine_.

* * *

Perhaps I should explain.

This was written exactly a year ago, September 13, 2001 - two days after the 9/11 attacks - as part of a paper for my Rhetoric 105 class. The point is not to somehow cheapen or lessen the impact of what happened, nor am I stating any personal beliefs about who is responsible. The whole and entire point is to explore a possible "What if?" through a work of fiction.

It stands to reason that Harry will eventually conquer the Dark Lord in 1997, his final year of school, so it has been roughly four years since that event has taken place. The Death Eaters that managed to survive Voldemort's downfall have since been left to their own devices, but some still harbor the hope that their Lord will return once again to lead them into glory. The scenario presented here depicts one of these "loyalists," and how he or she, in refusing to believe the Dark Lord is really gone like the rest of the wizarding world thinks, takes part in an elaborate plot to somehow keep a grasp on Voldemort's ideals of a Muggle-free world.

Glossary of Musical Terms:

**Crescendo**: a gradual build-up of tension, whether it be through volume, tempo, or otherwise.

**Grand Finale**: a final ending; very dramatic.

**_Fine_**: Italian, used to denote the end of a piece.

_Disclaimer: All characters and subject matter appearing herein are the copyrighted © creations of J. K. Rowling and Warner Brothers, and are borrowed for the purposes of this fanfiction. No money in any form was earned in its production. _

  
  



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